


burned out memories (and the scars to match)

by tiptoeingquietly



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (in later chapters), Cigarettes, Drarry, Drinking, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Harry smokes, M/M, Sexual Content, Slow Build Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Slow Burn, Smoking, THEYRE BOTH KIND OF ALCOHOLICS, THIS HAS SELF HARM (in the first chapter), THIS IS SLOW BURN. DO NOT HATE ME I WARNED YALL, TRIGGER WARNINGS will be issued in the notes!, be warned, draco smokes, mentions of aforementioned self harm WILL come up in later chapters!, more warnings/etc will be added to tags as we move along!, now that that is done, other ships are (for the most part) background!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 16:50:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20411089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiptoeingquietly/pseuds/tiptoeingquietly
Summary: Both having delved into the life of cigarettes and booze-filled nights, Draco Malfoy and Harry Potter return with their classmates to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Will they find peace in the castle they once called home? Or instead, only the haunting ghosts of slain children, the stale breath of newly forming scars, and the weight of War.Either, one could suppose, would be possible in the encounters between the two young men. And perhaps… Perhaps a bit of both.-or-Harry and Draco are edgy and smoke cigs and all seems well to their friends, but deep down there is an undercurrent of shame, guilt, and regret. When pushed into their Eighth year, Harry and Draco find themselves in an uneasy alliance, both indebted to other, and neither quite sure why still.-I SUCK AT SUMMARIES BUT READ THE FIRST CHAPTER YOU”LL UNDERSTAND)(TW: Sexual Content, Addiction, Self Harm (will be warnings on chapters including/reference to), PTSD)





	burned out memories (and the scars to match)

**Author's Note:**

> TW: Self Harm (in the first "page"), Cigarettes, Alcohol, PTSD, "Drug" (potion) Abuse

It was August 28th, two in the morning, three days before the start of term.

Draco Malfoy sat in a worn leather chair–one that stood out against the pristine wealth of Malfoy Manor. The cold glass of bourbon in his hand kept him awake despite the comfort of the flickering fire warming his face. The still silence of the nearly empty mansion made the volume of his traumatic thoughts unbearable. As hours of night passed with each tick of the small mantle clock above the fire, Draco sank further into the cracked leather chair and deeper into his hellish past. Ever since Lucius had been sentenced to a life in Azkaban, his mother, overwhelmed with grief, the loss of part of her fortune, and her husband, had descended quietly into herself and her liquor–the only leave taken from her room occasional and fleeting. 

Draco thought back to the trials, to his father’s immaculate dress but unwashed hair and tired eyes, to his mother’s firm grip on the stem of a wine glass, and her voice–once proud–softening into a whisper. He remembered his father’s judgement passed in the law court, and his mother’s fingers tightening around his own as she looked down, a passive expression on her face. 

Draco rarely allowed himself to delve into his own thoughts, silencing them with remedial tasks, a strict routine, and a fair amount of drinking. But now, dreading the ever approaching return to Hogwarts, when he would have to face the hatred brought on by his family’s allegiance in the war, and the castle where by his own hand, so many lives had been lost, Draco’s hand tightened on the glass. 

The silence was deafening. He hadn’t moved in over three hours–not even to scratch an itch–and the restlessness grew inside him. His eyes didn’t stray from the fire but his thoughts ran rampant. Memories of his forced life of isolation, deception, and servitude bubbled up from the depths of his mind. His entire sixth year of school burdened with insomnia. He remembered trying to sleep, but failing, unable to escape the pleading cries of the Dark Lord’s victims, as they screamed for mercy before falling into still silence–just as Draco found himself enveloped by now. He remembered his father, so terrified by the Dark Lord’s presence that he abided by his every command, even if it meant branding his own son with the Dark Mark, permanently caging him in a life of malice and hatred. Draco’s anger intensified, his knuckles white around his glass. Draco pitied his father. He hated him with a passion so deep in his gut that he felt sick at the thought of his cold, upturned face. At the same time, however, Draco couldnt help but love his father. He missed the man who had raised him, when he was small and could still crawl into a lap and fall asleep.

Draco’s jaw clenched so tightly his teeth ached. His entire body tensed, his hands shook, and his neck strained. He felt restless. He needed to move, scream, punch a wall, do something with all of this rage towards his father. In a moment of vicious release, Draco hurled his glass into the obsidian fireplace–the fire roaring at the input of alcohol–shards of glass littering the floor. 

“WEAK!” he screamed into the now receding flames. Breathing heavily, he crumpled to the floor as the silence encompassed him once again.

“Weak.” he uttered once again, his voice cracking as he looked around at the mess he had made. He noticed, now, the pain in his right hand which he had used to crutch himself when he slumped to the floor. He turned over his hand, blood dripping to the tile, a single shard of glass wedged into his palm. He slowly slid it out, wincing, and caught a glimpse of himself -- small in the reflection and dotted with blood. He tossed it to the side, analyzing the degree of his wound. It was shallow, only a few drops of blood pooling in the cup of his palm. This pain, this precise and pointed sting was gripping. Draco inhaled with shaking breath, leaning back against his unmarred hand, continuing to stare at his wound. What was this feeling? Draco felt in control, as if some cosmic power had slapped him into a clearer conscious. In his daze, Draco hadn't realised the tilt of his hand, and suddenly pushed back his sleeve to keep the blood from staining his white shirt. 

His right forearm exposed, Draco’s attention was drawn to the skull and snake forever etched into his skin in black ink. He watched in disdain as blood trickled down his arm over the mark, thinking of all the blood spilled–all the innocent lives taken–all for this irrelevant mark. And look at all the blood on my hands. Draco laughed to himself, Literally. It was a forced laugh. He wanted nothing more than to be rid of his past. To be rid of this label–this connection to his family’s name. He wanted the mark gone. He looked down at the cut on his hand. He wanted that same feeling of control. 

It was then Draco noticed the poker stuck in the fire. One of the house elves must have left it there. Draco leaned forward on his knees and pulled the poker out of the flames to return it to its holder, but paused. The end was glowing a red-orange that faded to a dull metal-grey toward the top. It must have been in the fire for quite a while. He brought his hand to the hot end of the stick, heat emanating from the tip. He pulled his hand back, the heat having grown to a stinging burn. His eyes widened, adrenaline pumping through his veins from the sting. He had felt it again, that same feeling of control. He wanted to utilize it. He wanted to realize its full potential. To use that control, that power, to take his life back from his father, to take back his past. He looked down at the scorching poker and then at his marked forearm. He felt that same cosmic force take ahold of him again, but it was slightly different this time. It wasn’t a reassurance from his defeated, somber state. This was passionate, and vengeful. It was infernal.

Mindlessly, and yet with purpose, Draco pressed the hot end of the poker into the flesh of his right forearm. The scalding metal bubbled his flesh, leaving a charred brand in the place where the Dark Mark once sat. The searing pain was his release–the sizzle of his boiling flesh, his anthem. 

“Draco, Darling? What’s going on?” Narcissa Malfoy stood stark against the black hallway, her hair white in the beams of moonlight. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and she cradled a glass in between her thin fingers. Draco breathed in quickly, the pain moving up his arm, making him dizzy.

“Nothing, mother. Go back to sleep.” Draco breathed out quickly, hoping she didnt hear the slight shake in his voice. 

“Oh alright. Good night Draco dear.” her words seemed to echo in the silent house, and like a ghost she drifted up the marble staircase, disappearing behind a doorway. Draco dropped the poker to the ground and leaned back against the wall cradling his arm with a euphoric smile playing on his face despite the pain. Like heroin to an addict, this was his felicity.

< * >

Platform 9 ¾ hadn’t changed. In a way Draco found this comforting, despite the scowls shot his way and the movement of parents pulling small children to their chests. He paused before stepping off the platform onto the Hogwarts Express. It was the first time he was leaving for Hogwarts without his mother sending him off. He took a deep breath and boarded the train, bags in hand, and maneuvered down the aisle looking for an empty carriage. Outside one of the carriages, he paused. Peering inside, he saw Weasel and Weaslette, Granger, Lovegood, and Longbottom leaning in and chatting happily; Unlike Potter, who sat in the corner shaking his leg restlessly and gazing out the window, not participating in the conversation. He looked even more scruffy and rugged since Draco had last seen him, if that was even possible. Stubble covered his chin and his hair was as disheveled as ever. Though Draco was not keen on such a messy appearance for himself, it suited Harry. Realizing then what he had thought, Draco’s cheeks reddened -- just as Potter looked up and met his eyes. Whipping his gaze away Draco rushed along, finding an empty carriage rather far from the Gryffindor’s and settled in.

“You bloody wanker!” the door of his cabin creaked open, revealing a red faced, puggy nosed, black bobbed Pansy Parkinson. Draco felt the corner of his mouth pull into a half smirk as he noticed Blaise standing behind her.

“Pansy, Darling -”

“Don't you dare ‘Pansy Darling’ me, Draco Malfoy!” Pansy dropped onto the seat across from him, reaching over and flicking him on the forehead. “I haven't seen or heard from you in months! All of my letters return unopened! Bloody hell Draco, I was considering storming the manor!” Pansy crossed her arms and scowled out the window, Blaise taking his seat beside her with a small chuckle.

“She has a point you know.” Draco looked up to meet Blaise’s eyes, the former’s dark and questioning despite the soft smile on his face. “We-- Pansy... was truly worried for you, Draco.” Draco sighed and leaned against the window, fingers itching for a cigarette. Blaise’s eyes flicked momentarily to Draco's twitching fingers, and then back to his face.

“I know, and I'm sorry about leaving you both. Mother isn't taking father’s imprisonment well, you see - and i've been tasked with making sure she doesn't…”

Draco trailed off, not even wanting to utter the phrase he’d been so afraid of the past few months. It may not have been the total truth, for it wasn't the reason Draco had ignored his best friends these past few months, but Draco only hoped his mother stayed how she was. The thought made him sick, wanting to keep his mother drugged on potions and decades old wine reserves. Draco reasoned, however, that if his mother stayed out of it long enough for Draco to return home, she wouldn't do anything drastic, anything to hurt herself. Although the idea may have been unthinkable to a once aristocratic Narcissa Black, Draco worried that her once haughty outlook on “cowardliness” may have shifted during her new status as a practically widowed Narcissa Malfoy.

Pansy touched Draco’s knee, and he looked up to meet her worried eyes. She smiled softly and bounced to her feet, dropping down onto the booth seat beside him.

“Well Draco, all is forgiven of course. We Slytherins simply must stick together during this awful year.” Pansy hooked her arm around Draco’s, her forearm pressing against his hastily bandaged one. On instinct, Draco pulled back quickly, having only enough sense to repress a hiss and pause cradling his arm.  
“Draco Darling, what -” Blasie shot Pansy a look, face tilted down and eyebrows scrunched together in worry. Pansy quieted, simply taking Draco’s hand after a moment and leaning against his side.

Draco had tried to heal the burned tissue after the… event. He had raided his family’s medicine cabinet, but the brun was still extremely tender to the touch and bright red. He had decided to simply wrap it and hope it healed properly -- refusing to even consider taking himself to Pomfrey’s.  
Pansy kissed Draco’s shoulder and he felt a warmth in his chest, the small act of affection monumental in the wake of his months of solitude. Blaise quickly nodded to him and looked at Pansy, leaning back against the antiquated cabin-wood. Draco, ignoring the silent conversation between the two sighed and gazed out at the passing Scottish hills, free hand at his pocket tracing the outline of his silver lighter.

< * >

Harry wasn’t quite sure what his problem was. Well, he rather was, but surely Harry James Potter could last one train ride without a cigarette, right? He’d slept through the night without a smoke, Harry reasoned, surely a five hour train ride was manageable. Harry then remembered that he rarely got more than three hours of sleep every night, the remaining hours spent tossing waiting for the sunrise, eventually giving up and taking a walk around Weasley’s property -- deciding on a nap late afternoon. Nightmares, Harry found, were much less violent during the day.

“Harry? Harry are you listening to me?” Harry looked up, blinking the fog out of his mind and meeting worried eyes. Hermione raised her eyebrows in question.

“Sorry?”

“Merlin mate,” Ron laughed, grabbing Harry’s shoulder from across the cabin. “Did you seriously miss the last hour of ‘Mione’s rant about ‘House Unity’?” Ron fingered-quoted around the phrase and Hermione pushed his arm.

“Ronald it’s important. House rivalries have never done anyone any good - and I think Headmistress McGonagall had the right idea inviting the Slytherins back this year. Theodore seems like a good enough guy.” Hermione pulled her hair back, a stray piece of it falling into her eyes.

“Theodore Nott is an arse.” Ron argued, Hermione rolled her eyes and laying her head on her shoulder with a small smile.

Harry wished he could feel content like the two of them. Ron and Hermione had been each other's rocks this past summer after the war, Ron dealing with the loss of his brother and Hermione with the stress of finally piecing together her family's memories. They were constantly by each other's side, and although Harry loved them both, he couldn't help but occasionally miss their “Golden Trio” as The Prophet loved to call them, and he also couldn't help but envy their apparent calm. Staring back out the window as Luna started on about Nargles and some other magical-brain-creature, Harry continued bouncing his leg, all but counting the clock till he could step out into the fresh air and finally burned his lungs away.

< * >

“First years! Right this way!” Hagrids booming voice echoed around the train station, herding a cluster of students his way. Draco couldn't help but notice how tiny the students were, their eyes wide in wonder at the oddly large and hairy man, as they dragged their overpacked bags behind them. Draco wondered how he could've been that small once. They must be getting smaller, he reasoned, and stepped through the gates onto the dirt path with Blaise and Pansy, meeting up with Nott.

“Well if it isn't Draco Malfoy,” Theodore Nott smirked and held out his hand, Draco grasping it firmly. Nott and himself had never been particularly close, but the sight of a... familiar... face was comforting.

“In the flesh. So you’ve got roped into another year as well?” Nott chuckled and stepped back, shoving his hands in his pockets and shrugging his shoulders.

“Mother went on about how my grades from seventh year would never be enough to grant me ‘even the job of a house elf,’” Nott quoted the phrase and shook his head, “I'm only coming back to retake my NEWT levels. The sooner this year ends, the better.” Draco nodded his head in agreement and the four Slytherins made their way down the path to the carriages.

In a sudden gasp, the carriages were revealed. Draco didn't understand the cry till he saw them - dark, thin, boney and towering above the students gawking at them. Pansy grabbed Blaise and Theo’s arms, the two men’s eyes wide. Pansy’s eyebrows narrowed as she chuckled at them in confusion. She turned to face Draco, questioning smile playing at her lips, and Draco remembered that Pansy hadn't truly been at the battle of Hogwarts. Her and the other Slytherins had been locked inside the dungeons; He, Theo, and Blaise however, had no such luck. Draco rolled his eyes and climbed into the last carriage, waiting till the rest of the school had started down the path. He didn't need anymore attention.

Draco had been able to see the creatures since his sixth year, the summer before bearing witness to a bloodstained dining room table where the Dark Lord had enjoyed his muggle experiments. No, Draco thought, Not experiments -- play toys. Draco had been made to watch by his father, clawed hand tightly gripping his shoulder as he hissed, “If you look away he will know.” Draco remembered his fear at witnessing the Thestrals for the first time. He was alone, accompanying his father to a small task in the Dark Forest -- his father abandoning him right away on arrival. His eyes had shot wide at seeing the creature, his back slamming into a tree as he scrambled back, forcing him into a sitting position with his legs open and stretched out. Draco recalled a young creature trotting forward, ghostly knee caps looking as if they were to buckle any moment, and kneeling down in front of him into a rest. He recalled the breath as floating strangely warm across his cheeks, and the small screech it cried as its mother pulled it up by the tail and pushed it towards the wild herd. Snapping out of his memory, Draco looked up at the strangely quiet pair of faces across from him.

This was their forest moment. Draco looked down at his hands and away from Pansy’s ever-curious gaze, counting the potholes.

The carriage in front of him, he noted as his gaze shifted over the Thestrals’s head, filled to the brim Potter and his gaggle of Gryffindors, rolled evenly along. Weasley and the Weaslette looking to Granger for what seemed like an answer to the mystery of the beasts, but were met with a similar confused-yet-disturbed expression. Potter though, Draco realized, was stone faced - his knee bouncing just as it had been before in the train cabin.

“Draco, what are these?” Blaise turned towards Draco, breaking his silence. His eyes were shadowed and worried.

“Thestrals,” Nott supplied, looking at his hands just as Draco had before. “You can see them once you’ve been witness to death.” Blaise’s gaze shifted to the floor of the carriage, jaw clenched. Draco wasn’t sure how Theo had connected the dots so quickly. The Thestrals were known creatures of course, but they were rarely ever seen -- and seldom spoken of. Something told Draco that Nott knew more people than just those on the carriage who could see Thestrals.

The thought made Draco angry, and then sad.

< * >

The carriages used to be one of Harry’s favourite parts about the beginning of Hogwarts. The smooth cradling of the benches and floor as it’s wheels bumped along the cobblestone pathways, the canopy of forest trees creating a picture frame around the stars and the moon. All that changed beginning Fourth Year of course, with the death of Sirius. Harry remembered the creatures and his hesitancy at them when he first arrived. The closer he looked, however, Harry remembered himself marveling at their milky eyes and stretched skin. He couldn't believe just how vast the magical world was -- regarding the number of creatures it held secret.

Harry recalled arriving at Hogwarts, turning to Hermione and whispering,

“‘Mione… I thought the carriages have always drawn themselves. Why did they decide on horses this year?” He pictured Hermione’s knitted eyebrows and half smirk. She chuckled and bumped his shoulder,

“Harry, sometimes i truly think you're going mad.” Harry frowned at the back of her head as she jogged up next to Ginny. Tossing her head back she raised one eyebrow as said,

“I mean it Harry, just talk to Dumbledore. Maybe it’s stress?” she stopped. “It’s not exactly sane to be imagining horses.” Harry subconsciously rubbed his scar before heading into the Great Hall. It was not until later did Harry finally put a name to those creatures with the help of Remus.

Breaking out of his memory and into reality, Harry felt Hermione tapping his shoulder and repeating his name, “Harry? Harry..”

“Yeah, ‘Mione, whats up?” Hermione raised her eyebrow in the aforementioned fashion, leaning against Ron’s shoulder diagonal to where Harry was seated.

“I was just talking to Ginny, and she was saying how some students wanted another Dumbledore's-Army sort of deal. I guess they want to see your technique.” Ginny barked out a laugh, turning to Harry and smiling.

“Yeah, I know, we aren't exactly in a war anymore,” Ginny and Ron’s eyes flicked to each other faster than a blink. “But some students just want to feel safe i suppose.” Ginny’s eyes shot up at Harry's response,

“Yeah well, thanking bloody Merlin for that aren’t you. No thanks Ginny, I would rather not spend another year of my life learning about how not to get murdered by a bunch of mask-wearing bigots.” You could hear a pin drop if not for the cobblestone road.

“Harry… it was just an idea…”

“A rather good one at that.” Hermione corrected Ginny’s comment. On looking into Harry’s eyes however, and down at his clasped hands, Hermione turned to Ginny,  
“Perhaps later, when we’ve all settled into classes.” Ginny nodded and sat against the side of the carriage.

“Right, yes, of course. It was bloody mad to ask that before we’ve even got our class schedules. I mean, you Eighth Years are bound to be swamped with work.” Ginny looked at Harry expectantly. Dialling back his recollections, Harry offered a small smile and nodded.

“Yeah. That’s what I meant. Before, I mean.” Ginny nodded and turned back to Ron, discussing something about a Quidditch spot that may be available on the HolyHead Harpies. Harry tuned out as soon as he tuned itn, and met Heriome’s eyes. Harry had a feeling he would be having a conversation with her later. He imagined it:

“Harry Potter, you know Ginny is mourning both Fred’s death and your guys’ relationship. Not to mention the others. Be kind to her Harry, for Merlin’s sake. Whatever it was, or is, don’t take it out on Ginny.”

“Yeah, you’re right ‘Mione. I'm sorry. I'll apologize to Ginny tomorrow,” He would not.

“Right. Well… Good night Harry.”

“Night ‘Mione. See you tomorrow.”

Harry rolled his eyes and scratched his fingers against the box in his pocket. He knee began again bouncing.

Mind wandering away from his vision and Hermione’s questioning eyes, Harry looked back at the carriage behind him. Noticing first a head of striking blond hair, Harry’s gaze found its way to Malfoy’s face, noticing the pair of light eyes as they darted to the Thestrals, and then back down to his hands. Although the Slytherin’s eyebrows were knit and a lip was tucked between his teeth, Malfoy didn't seem fazed by the skeletal creatures. He in fact looked to be more… Understanding.  
Harry’s brain only then started to connect the dots, taking in the war, Malfoy’s part in it, Malfoy’s father, and his apparent non-surprised presence at the Thestrals. I suppose Malfoy would have seen more Death than most… Harry’s thoughts added, snapping Harry into the present. The Gryffindor's gaze fixed itself onto his hands.

Funny, Harry thought, Just like Malfoy’s.

< * >

Harry’s eyes adjusted to the dim lighting as he and the other students shuffled into the Great Hall. The atmosphere was different than that of past first days at Hogwarts -- usual bustling excitement and grins in anticipation of the opening feast was replaced by silence and repressed murmurs. Harry, guided on either side by Ron and Hermione walked down the aisle to their table. Harry tried to ignore the stares from the younger students, pretended he didn't feel their small fingers razing the outer layers of his cloak, and with Ron’s hand on his shoulder and Hermione’s palm squeezing against his own Harry looked up at McGonagall standing at the podium. The sight of his professor standing where Dumbledore once had reminded him again of the weight of the war, but he held his ground when she cleared her voice.

“Welcome all first year students,” Harry’s eyes moved to the small, shuffling group of students at the front of the hall. He recognised a few from the train station, and was reminded again of just how small they were. How small he once was. Taking a seat at the Gryffindor table, Harry made note of a new table at the end of the hall, in front of the High Table. It was empty, and just in front of the new first years.  
“And welcome back all older students to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, as we start the new school term. Now, as I am sure you are all aware, Hogwarts was victim to extraordinary damage at the end of last term in the Great War, and so I welcome you all to give a round of applause to the good men and women who helped to rebuild this school.” The hall thundered with claps and a couple hoots, but Harry’s hands remained in Hermione’s hand and at his side. Neither Ron nor Hermione clapped, but nodded their heads. Harry turned towards Ron, the latter’s jaw clenching and unclenching. Hermione and Harry locked eyes, the former letting go of Harry’s hand in order to quietly move to Ron’s other side and place her arm around his waist. It was subtle, but in his peripheral vision Harry noted his like-year Gryffindors cast a glance at Ron, who was looking into Hermione’s eyes. Harry’s gaze snapped away, feeling as if he was witness to a much too intimate conversation.

< * >

The feast seemed to end as soon as it started, Draco having barely touched his food. When McGonagall excused students to retire, Draco, Blaise, Pansy, and Not followed the Slytherin house out of the Great Hall. Suddenly, McGonagall’s voice caught their attention, “All eighth year students follow me please”. She walked out of the Great Hall toward the middle quart-yard, the eighth year students following closely behind.

“Where do you reckon she’s taking us?” Nott spoke at Draco’s shoulder. Pansy and Blaise met eyes and shrugged. Draco, walking behind the other three, huffed a laugh,

“Maybe McGonagall is finally going to get rid of our gang once and for all - down goes the great Slytherin house!” Draco tilted his head back and breathed in the cold Scottish air, “I figure the rest of these blokes wouldn't mind a bit.” Pansy rolled her eyes and Nott threw his arm around her and Blaise, who was chuckling.

“If that means I don't have to study for NEWTS, then i'm keen.” Nott distantly whispered as McGonagall came to a stop outside of the Dark Tower. The four Slytherins looked up at the infamous former-prison. No student had ever glimpsed it’s interior, for it was said to be impenetrable - left untouched even in the wake of the Great War. “I guess you were right, Draco,” Theo shot his friend a cheeky smile, “Knocking us out all in one go.” Pansy elbowed Theo in the gut and Blaise stifled a bark of laughter. Draco, leaning against the stone wall and tracing the lighter in his pocket, looked around at his peers, all in small groups whispering or laughing softly. When his eyes met bright red hair - startling even in the dim light of the stone hallway, Draco noticed the Golden Trio - or rather, their missing piece. Potter stood not with his friends, and casting a quick glance across the rest of the eight years, Draco realized quickly that Potter was nowhere to be found.

“Silence please, students,” McGonagall's voice echoed in the hallway, empty not-including the eighth year students. Eyeing the crowd she cleared her voice and joined her hands. “Firstly, welcome back to Hogwarts, welcome back to Hogwarts.” Her eyes met Draco’s, and he cast his gaze to his clasped hands. “You all must be wondering why I have brought you here, and why there was a separate table in the Great Hall. As the eldest students in this school body, it is your responsibility to promote inter-house unity here at Hogwarts,” Draco heard grumbles and feet shuffling against the tiles, and avoided the few looks shot in his direction. “I expect the highest level of maturity and civility toward all of your common eighth-years.” McGonagall stated firmly, peering over the top of her glasses. “Now I figure you all to be tired from your journey and dinner, so you will be pleased to know your bags and belongings have already been moved into your respective dorms,” McGonagall motioned toward the painted wall behind her, and turning to the portrait she cleared her voice, “pax serenusque”. Draco stood straight in shock as the portrait clicked and swung inward revealing a torch lit entryway and bright room beyond. “If you would follow me please students,” McGonagall stepped through the portrait, and after a beat the eighth years followed suit.

The entryway opened into a circular room, lined with bookshelves, couches, tables, and two fire pits.

“This is your new Common Room,” McGonagall gestured around the space, “As you can see, all four house colours are represented. Please, take a seat so I may set the ground rules for your eighth year at Hogwarts”. Draco distractedly gazed around the room, from the navy and forest green couches, to the burgundy fireplace and pale-yellow curtains. It was comfortable, contrary to the coldness of his previous common room in the dungeons. Noticing the other students had found seats, Draco sat at the small chess table in the back of the room. McGonagall started, “Firstly, you’ll all be glad to know that you are still allowed in your previous house common rooms,” excited chatter filled the room at her words. “However, sleeping there is prohibited.” McGonagall paused, looking around before continuing, “As you are all of age, it would be foolish of me to prevent you from certain activities involving now-legal substances. Therefore, your Hogsmeade privileges are unrestricted–”. Draco heard an interjecting “Whoop” from Finnegan. McGonagall sighed, “However, the use of such substances on the grounds is strictly prohibited. And, if any one of you provides such substances to underage students, I will hear of it and there will be consequences”. She locked eyes with Finnegan and, flushing red, he ducked behind Dean. Granger’s hand shot into the air, “Yes, Miss Granger?” Hermione straightened in her seat,

“And our curfew, Headmistress?” McGonagall turned to the rest of the room,

“Well, seeing as classes begin at nine, your professors and I expect you all to be present–physically and mentally.” Granger seemed satisfied with the vague response. McGonagall’s face then softened, “I know being back at Hogwarts this year is difficult for all of you. I don’t expect you to behave as perfectly as in past years, but I do hope you are mature enough now to maintain mutual respect with your professors and decorum with your peers. So, if you are having trouble sleeping and feel the need to wander the castle during all hours of the night, please do not get caught. I too have trouble sleeping and the last thing I need is Filch waking me on account of ‘students out of bed’”. She eyed the room once more over top her glasses and turning to the board above the fireplace, tacked a piece of parchment to the cork.

“These are your floor and room assignments. There will be no exchanges,” walking back through the entryway, the Headmistress called, “Goodnight to you all”.

< * >

Shoving the pack of cigarettes into his coat pocket, Harry hurried back toward the Dark Tower, where he had left his fellow eighth years. The hallway was empty now, and Harry took a ragged inhale before slumping against the stone wall. Suddenly the normally unnoticed and antiquated portrait at the end of the hall creaked open, a sliver of light bathing the stone in yellow. McGonagall stepped out, and when noticing Harry, she stopped the portrait with the toe of her small boots.

“Eight year students should be wise enough to follow directions and listen to their professors, Mr. Potter.” She raised her eyebrows and Harry shuffled forward, dipping his head.

“I'm sorry professor, I didn't realize I had gone for so long.” Harry looked at his professor and she smiled, placing a hand on his shoulder.

“The password is 'pax serenusque', Mr. Potter. I am sure Miss Granger and Mr. Weasley can explain the rest to you later. Good night.” Harry watched the headmistress for a moment before pushing open the portrait and stepping into the entryway.

Entering the common room Harry spied an empty chair in the back of the room, and collapsed into it. Harry took in the space around him, the common room an odd mixture of every house colour. Noticing the parchment above the fireplace, Harry’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a familiar scoff:

“You reek of cigarettes, Potter.” Harry recognized the voice as none other than Draco Malfoy, who seemed to have also chosen a seat furthest in the back of the room. Harry laughed,

“Are we really going to do this, Malfoy?”

“Wouldn’t be Hogwarts without it.” Harry turned to finally meet the gaze of the blond boy across from him. His fair skin was slightly flushed and his normally styled hair let fall a few strands across his left cheek. His eyes were steel, reflecting the firelight.

“Harry!” Hermione’s voice pulled Harry back into the present. Slapping his hands on his thighs, Harry reluctantly pushed himself to his feet, offering an apologetic smile to Malfoy before joining his friends across the room.


End file.
